Lost in the Supermarket

Her eyes made it easy—too easy—to stare into them. The ringlets framed her face and made her eyes pop.

I was so busy staring that I almost missed her first words. As always, Paula got straight to the point. She had never been one for casual chit-chat. A no-nonsense woman, Paula. A helluva go-getter, too, from what I recalled.

"Mark, I'm looking for a new job," she said. She tried to be calm about things, but I got the sense she was nervous underneath that mask she usually wore. I thought looking for a new job must be a big deal for her.

"Oh! Freeman's not working out for you?" I asked.

She shook her head and made a little grimace. From anybody else, that grimace would have been a primal scream.

"Not really," she admitted. "Since you left ... things just haven't been the same."

I nodded. "I heard through the grapevine. New owners; new management—and new management philosophies. I get it. Change is difficult."

"Yeah, 'difficult'. So ... I'm looking. I'm looking and I thought of you. We always got along pretty well, I thought. You always treated me nicely. We were, um, colleagues, I guess is the word. We were friendly but never.... I mean, you never tried—"

I raised my hand to interrupt her. "Nope. I never tried. And I'm not ever going to try. That kind of stuff leads to HR investigations and lawsuits, and a whole lot of other stuff I'd very much prefer to avoid."

She let out a sigh. She didn't say a word for a few seconds, which let me think. I figured out pretty quickly what the true story was.

"The new manager?" I asked gently.

She nodded and looked away. When her beautiful eyes looked back, they found my eyes right where they had been. Nowhere else. I might be a dirty old man, but I'm not stupid. Eyes to eyes. That's how you do it when you're talking with them.

"They're putting in self-service checkout machines," she told me. "They're not going to need as many cashiers anymore. And I can't afford not to have a job."

"And maybe your job security would be enhanced if you were ... let's say ... a little more friendly with your new manager?"

She nodded again, another little grimace on her face. "So, I came to you—to Carson's Co-op. I thought ... well, I knew that you know me, right? You know I'm a hard worker. I don't miss shifts; I'm never late. I can pick up other people's shifts if there's a need. I thought—"

"Right. I do know you. Carson's would be lucky to get you. You came to the right place, Paula. What are you making now at Freeman's?"

She told me. It was more than Carson's paid its cashiers.

"Tell you what. I can offer almost what you're making now—but not quite. But if you'll take the job, I'll help you with your hours. You'll have to work a few more hours each week, but you'll still have the same income. If you want the job, it's yours."

She gave me one of her rare-as-silver-dollar smiles. It was the prettiest thing I had seen in a long time. When she smiled at me I could feel my heart start to race.

We figured out a starting date and I gave her the pile of HR forms to fill out. I escorted her to the front entrance, then watched her walk back to her car. I mean, I watched her walk. In those tight jeans. With that hair. I watched hard. She never noticed.

*****

Paula's story

Working at Carson's wasn't much different than working at Freeman's had been. At least, in terms of the work. The people were pretty much the same. The job was pretty much the same. The big difference was Mark. Working again with Mark was like seeing the sun come out on a cloudy day. We hit it off again as if we hadn't been apart for six months. In fact, our relationship grew and deepened.

We started eating lunch together in the breakroom. It wasn't a big deal, though maybe some of the other employees raised their eyebrows at us. I didn't care what they thought, because nothing shady was going on between us. We just ate our lunch together, and talked about meaningless things. He made himself a lunch every day, and so did I. He liked turkey or ham sandwiches, usually with an apple or orange; and—every so often—a bag of chips. Washed down with water. I liked salads and an apple or orange; and—every so often—an oatmeal cookie. Washed down with water. Lunch was exactly 30 minutes long—per union rules—and we shared that time together.

Mark never, ever, tried to take advantage. I knew him well enough to know he never would. Oh, he'd check me out from time to time—I caught him ogling my backside once when I glanced up at one of our loss-prevention mirrors—but he didn't make a big deal about it. I found myself smiling at the thought that a man—an older gentleman—might find me attractive.

He wasn't creepy about it, not the way Gary had been creepy. Gary looked at my butt and made it clear he wanted to do more than just look. Mark looked at my butt—sometimes but not all the time—and made it clear he wanted to do nothing more than look. I could deal with Mark. I found his interest ... flattering.

Mary continued to do well in school. For all the crap you hear and read about LA schools, the fact was that she was getting a better education here than she would have at ... the place we had come from. She was getting lots of history and learning the notion that the world was a bigger place, with different beliefs in it, than the little place in the middle of nowhere that had been our home for the first four years of her life. She was interacting with kids who were different from her: they had different skin colors and different accents. Some had more money than we did but there were plenty of kids who obviously had less. I was pretty happy with Mary's education.

In the mornings, I made Mary breakfast and got her ready for school. I fixed us both lunches. In the afternoons, there was an after-school program that watched her until I got off work. The after-school program was free. Another benefit of California liberalism, I guess. The school also said that, based on my income, Mary was entitled to a free breakfast and lunch from the school cafeteria, but I said no to that because I enjoyed taking care of her. For months we lived on charity, and now we didn't need handouts, so let them give the free food to those who really needed it. That was my decision.

Mary was still my little girl even though she was growing like a weed. Second grade this year, third grade next year ... soon she would be a teenager in high school. I hoped she would go on to college—unlike me. No college for me.

I got "married" just after high school, when I was nineteen. Mary came along 40 weeks after my so-called "wedding night." I was barely 20 when I'd had her; I would be 29 in a few months. I would be 29 and my job right now was to put food on the table, a roof over our heads, and get my precious little girl ready to live the best life she could.

As for me, I was done. I was almost 29 and my time was over. Maybe one day, when Mary was in college and I was sure she was okay, then I could think about dating, about finding a man. Just a nice, caring, gentle man would be nice. Somebody who'd hold me and rub my back or my feet after a long day at work. But not now. Right now, I had neither time nor inclination for any more complications in my life.

I had a new job. I had a boss I got along with really well. I had a beautiful eight-year-old daughter who was going to set the world on fire one day. I didn't want or need anything more than that.

That's what I thought, anyway. That's what I thought, until Luke found us.

*****

Mark's story

Eventually I got Paula to open up a bit about her personal life. Not everything. Not all the tawdry details. But some.

She told me about her eight-year-old daughter, Mary—and how well Mary was doing in school. How Mary was making friends, settling in to their new life in Los Angeles.

Paula didn't say anything about what happened before they came to LA. Not a damn thing. The way she talked, one day she and little Mary had sprung up, fully formed, on the beach. Whatever happened before that moment was a mystery. She would open up to me—just a little—but never about what I came to call in my head "the before times."

Still, we ate lunch together just about every day. Thirty minutes of ... connection. That's the right word: connection. We connected on some level. It got to the point that lunch with Paula was pretty much the highlight of my day.

We kept it casual. I mean, we had to keep it casual. Everybody else was looking at us with suspicion. They were looking to see if I treated Paula differently because we ate lunch together. Paula was younger than almost every other cashier. They knew we had a history from Freeman's, and they were definitely checking us out to see if that history had any physical aspects to it. So, I was careful to keep it casual. I think Paula appreciated that. She might smile at me a bit more than she smiled at others, but that was the extent of things between us.

Everyone was watching to see exactly what kind of relationship Paula and I really had. I knew—I knew clearly—that Paula didn't want anything more than just friendly conversation. In my fantasies I wanted more than that—but those were fantasies of a dirty old man, not reality. The reality was that Paula didn't want anything more than what we had, and I was physically incapable of having anything more than what we had. Not to mention that, if anything did happen between us, there would be complaints to HR and the Union Rep twenty minutes later. The next day, somebody from HR would be in my office for a painful conversation. Guaranteed.

So, just friends. Friends who shared lunch together five or six times a week, in a common area breakroom where everybody could witness our conversations. That's the way it was. That's the way it was for more than six months.

Then her ex-husband from the before times somehow tracked her down and visited her at Carson's.

*****

Paula's story

I had been working at Carson's Co-Op for a little more than six months. Mary was going to be nine in a couple of weeks. Everything was going great—or so I thought—until one sunny Wednesday morning Luke walked into the store.

I hadn't seen Luke in more than four years, almost five. Seeing him here, at Carson's, felt like being hit by a bolt of lightning.

He looked the same as he did when I took Mary and escaped. Faded jeans. Work boots. Flannel shirt. His favorite John Deere cap worn in reverse. A three-day-old patchy beard. Slender bordering on skinny.

He looked like a nightmare come to life.

He came right up to me. I stood there at my register, frozen. Thank God the store wasn't crowded when it happened.

"Paula," he said, looking at me calmly. "We need to talk. My truck's in the parking lot. Five minutes."

I nodded because I had nothing to say. I literally couldn't say anything at the moment.

I picked up the inter-store phone and dialed the Manager's four-digit number. Mark answered. "I need to take an early break," I told him. "Right now. Emergency."

"Oh. Okay. Do what you have to do. Can I help?"

Mark was such a darling man!

"No. Uh, nothing you can do right now. Just ... I need a few minutes. That's all."

"Take whatever time you need," he said.

I hung up the phone and walked slowly into the parking lot, as if I was walking to my doom. In a way, I was.

*****

Mark's story

My office has a little one-way window facing the store. I'm supposed to use it to check on the employees from time to time. The people here are so good I hardly ever use it. Today, I was thankful the window was there.

I saw Paula walk out into the parking lot. The way she looked made me concerned. Her shoulders were hunched up tight and she walked like a robot. I made a quick decision and followed her.

I saw her get into an old pickup truck with out of state tags on it. There was a guy in the driver's seat. He wore a dirty baseball cap, turned around the way people do these days. Under the cap he had stringy dark hair that reached almost to his shoulders. I bet he had one or two poorly thought-out tattoos somewhere on his body.

First impression: I didn't like him.

Second impression: I really didn't like him, because now he was yelling at Paula.

I watched from the entrance as Paul and the stringy-haired guy from out of state yelled back and forth. I thought they were about three seconds away from fists flying. I knew that if the strange guy hit Paula, he was going to regret that punch for the rest of his short life.

Something inside pushed me to walk over to the truck and knock on the passenger window. The window went down, then Paula and the guy were staring at me as if I had just interrupted something important. Because of course I had.

"Sorry to bother you, Paula," I said in an even voice. "But break's over. I need you back in the store now."

"Oh! Uh, sure, Mark! Yeah."

They both looked at me, obviously waiting for me to leave so that they could finish what they started.

I shook my head in mock sadness. "Sorry, but I need you now. There's a rush and we need to open another register."

The guy frowned but what could he say? Not too much.

"Okay," he said, as if she needed his approval to go back to work. "We'll finish this later—after you're done with work. What time is that?"

She hesitated.

I stepped into her hesitation. "Paula has a long shift today. She'll be off about six. Maybe a few minutes after, because she needs to make up for this extra-long break."

He nodded. Paula didn't say anything but she knew I was lying through my teeth. She was going to be off at four today, just like most every other day. She didn't call me out on it though; she just nodded.

"Okay," the guy said again. "See you back here at six. Don't be late."

"All right, Luke," she said. That was the guy's name. Luke. Luke the ex-husband, was my guess. Luke the Asshole, apparently. If Luke was her ex, then I thought I knew why Paula didn't talk about the before times.

*****

Paula's story

I could have kissed Mark when he knocked on the window to tell me I was needed back in the store. I don't know what would have happened if he hadn't intervened. And the way he lied to Luke about when I was getting off work! Mark saved me.

Well, not really. He had bought me some time. That was all. Because Luke was here—somehow—and he wasn't going to ever take 'no' for an answer. He had found me—found us—somehow. He had made in clear within the first minute that he wanted us to go back with him.

Suddenly, all my hard work—everything I'd done for Mary and me—was about to crumble into ashes.

I tried not to cry as I worked through my shift. I did my job but I don't remember how I managed to do so. Too soon, it was four in the afternoon and my shift was over.

Mark was waiting for me as I exited the store.

"I think we should talk," he said.

I tried to smile at him. "I'm sorry, Mark, but I need to catch the bus. Then I need to get Mary from school."

He nodded. "Can I give you a lift?" He gestured at his car, a four-door Honda that was clean but which had seen better days.

I got in and tried to make the seatbelt buckle work, but it didn't seem to want to fit. No matter how I tried, the buckle wouldn't fit. After two or three tries, I started to cry in frustration. It wasn't the seatbelt, of course—it was Luke. How had he found me?

Mark turned the buckle around and I heard it click. He had been careful not to touch me. He was always so considerate! I realized then how much I trusted him. He was a safe haven; he always had been—but I was just realizing at this moment how Mark had the knack of being there for me.

He drove off. I managed to give him directions to the school. As we drove, he didn't say anything. He didn't ask me any questions. He just ... accepted.

Finally, I couldn't take the building pressure of him accepting the situation. "Fine!" I said in a voice that was somewhere between a shout of anger and a cry of pain, "Fine! I'll tell you!"

Mark kept his eyes on the road. He didn't interrupt me even once as I explained about Mark. About Mark and me, and about Mary. And about the Lambs of Yahweh. It took nearly the entire drive to tell him everything.

He only interrupted my story one time—and that was to tell me he had a box of tissues in the glove compartment. Believe me, I used several of those tissues before we got to Mary's school.

*****

Mark's story

Paula finally opened up to me on the drive to Mary's school. She told me about the before times.

They sucked.

She was crying through most of the story. What I gathered was that she had been part of this religious cult thing in wherever she'd been living. They were called "Lambs of Yahweh." I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised: people do the strangest things in the name of religion.

But these folks were next level.

As we got close to the school, I finally asked the question that had been on my mind. "This guy? Is he your ex-husband, or what?"

Paula shook her head. I wasn't sure if she was shaking her head "no" or just in denial at the situation. "Sort of," she said.

Paula must have realized how that sounded. "Okay, Mark. Look. We were married within the group—yes. He was my husband, or so they told me. But we never had a marriage license or anything like that. So ... it's kind of hard to answer your question. Yes and no. Yes, but not officially. Does that make sense?"

I shook my head back at her. "Nope. But that's okay. This guy—"

"Luke," she interrupted.

"Right. Luke. He thinks he's your husband, right? Not 'ex-husband' because you never got a divorce."

"Right. I never got a divorce because we were never married in the eyes of the state. But he thinks he's my husband—yes."

I felt myself relax a bit. If they weren't legally married, then whatever rights this Luke guy had were minimal. Paula didn't kidnap her child because he wasn't legally the father. Or was he?

"Is he Mary's father?" I asked. I must have asked the wrong question because Paula started to cry again.

"Yes. No. I'm not sure." Said while wiping her eyes and blowing her nose.

I just let that answer lay where she flung it until she gave me some more to work with.

Her voice was trembling now. "My, uh, wedding night ... it wasn't with Luke. It was with Isiah, the leader of the Church."

I nodded, trying to keep my face calm and my voice even. "Droit de seigneur," I said.

"Huh?"

"Right of the lord to have sex with his vassal's wife on their wedding night," I explained. "Goes back a thousand years."

"Oh. Yeah. Well. That's what happened ... to me. The first night was with Isiah and then the other nights were with Luke." She grimaced. "It was 'my duty,' they said."

"And Mary?"

"She came along just about nine months ... after. So, nobody knows for sure if Luke is or is not the father. It might be Isiah."

"No paternity test?"

She shook her head.

"Okay. So, in the eyes of the state—legally—Luke is not your husband. But he thinks he is." She nodded. "And Luke may or may not be Mary's father but, again, he thinks he is." She nodded again.

I was thinking of an attorney I knew. He might not know all the ins-and-outs of family law, but I bet he knew someone who did. As soon as I could get us some space and time away from Asshole Luke, I was going to call him and see what he could do for us. That's what I was thinking after Paula told me her story.